


Gold of Erebor

by raiyana



Series: The Reader Inserts [24]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Dwarf!Reader, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Tumblr: ImaginexHobbit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 22:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11541963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Arriving in Erebor, you felt confident about starting your new life as Princess - Queen-to-be - Under the Mountain.Arriving at the ball, heading to meet your betrothed for the first time... your confidence faltered.Getting lost and making a new friend made things look up a little, though you still felt a sliver of dread.This story will be expanded as part of my nanowrimo project, but this version will be left as-is.I am irrationally annoyed that the tag is 'Fluff and Angst', rather than 'Angst and Fluff'...





	Gold of Erebor

”Amad!” you hissed, staring across the room. The King’s Ballroom was filled with Dwarrow in fine dress, but your attention was caught by the Princes of Erebor.

“What is it, dearling?” King Ranvé of the Orocarni asked, following your gaze to where the Heirs of Thorin Oakenshield were greeting their Uncle’s guests.

“No one told me he was blonde!” you groused. “I thought Fíli was the dark-haired one!” Your Amad turned her shrewd gaze your way, as always making it seem as though she could read your mind.

“I always thought you favoured golden-haired dwarrow, daughter,” she rebuked mildly. You scowled. It wasn’t that you _disliked_ the tawny golden locks of the oldest Prince, if you were completely honest, it was simply that the colour reminded you far too much of Salvor’s sun-streaked curls and the sight made your already nervous stomach roil.

“I can’t do this, Amad,” you mumbled, and before your King could restrain you, you had turned on your heel and fled the Ballroom.

 

Of course, having arrived only that afternoon, you hardly remembered the way back to the spacious accommodations you had been granted, and soon found yourself hopelessly lost. Whatever area you’d ended up in, it was obviously not where you’d wanted to go, and you looked incredibly misplaced among these grimy smiths in your finery. Pulling back the braids that framed your face, using the long braids to secure the rest of your hair loosely behind your head, you continued onwards, undaunted by the odd looks your attire garnered. Following the sounds of a hammer, and the smell of red-hot steel, you reached the Forges. You had read about Erebor’s Great Forges, and Amad had told you stories, but you still gasped at the sight. Not much work was going on, due to the ball, but there was one old Dwarf still working. Edging closer, careful to stand back so your silk dress wouldn’t get singed by stray sparks you watched as the metal slowly became a sword. The sound of the hammer’s blows, the hiss of the hot metal when it was quenched, and the orange light of the forge slowly combined into the music of smithing, familiar and calming to the senses.

“Who are you, girl?” the smith rumbled, giving you a side-look that easily took in the blue silk of your gown and the elaborate updo that your hair had been in before you made your escape. You were still wearing the trappings of your station, but you wished you could have swapped all your pretties and fine garments for the apron that shielded him from stray embers and sparks. “You look lost,” he continued, apparently not expecting much of an answer from you. Instead, his focus remained on the blade he was crafting, and simply let you stand there, lost in your own mind as you stared at what you could tell was a Master at work.

“I am the Princess,” you whispered, after long minutes of silent ogling. It would be a magnificent weapon when it was finished, you could already tell. “I suppose I am lost, Master Smith,” you admitted wryly, gesturing to your fancy dress, “but I needed to get away from them… all of them.” You didn’t know what he saw in your face, but he paused his work for a moment, studying you intently. With a huff of breath, he turned around, walking over to a large chest in the corner of the room and pulled a tunic from the depths.

“If yer stayin’, best change,” he said, holding out the garment easily. You wanted to weep with gratitude, but instead you just nodded, taking the offered tunic and slipping behind the partition that separated his planning area from the actual forge. Frustrated with the closures on your dress, you pulled out the dagger that lived in a sheath strapped to your thigh and cut the laces, shrugging out of the fine fabric with a heartfelt sigh. Pulling the old tunic over your head – a dark green colour that suited your auburn hair surprisingly well – you left your dress on the drafting table and returned to watch the old smith work.

“Hand me that hammer, Princess,” he rumbled at you, pointing with his chin. In his mouth, your title became a fondly teasing nickname that made you smile. Salvor and Lófi appeared before your mind’s eye as you handed the hammer to the smith with a small smile. Your… _friend_ – you wished it had been more, but now it never would be – and your old Master had had the same gruff way with words, but you knew how to spot when it was affectionate mockery versus outright hostility.

 

You had almost forgotten yourself in watching him work, skilfully folding and hammering and turning back to heat the metal over again, when the smith spoke once more.

“So, running away?” he asked, though he didn’t look up to watch you answer.

“I shall have to go back,” you sighed, idly playing with one of your braids. “I’ll have to apologise to Amad…and the King… and the Prince.” Sinking down onto the only available seat, you hid your face in your hands, feeling the tears press behind your eyes. “I just… I don’t know that I can do this…” you whispered, feeling defeated.

“You don’t want to get married?” he replied, proving that he was either more important than you had assumed, or gossip had already announced your presence and the cause of your visit. You sighed heavily, looking up at him beneath the strands of hair that had already escaped from its half-hearted confinement.

“I don’t know. I can see why Amad thought it would be a good idea, but…” you laughed mirthlessly, “I was… I was in love. I think.”

“And we only love once,” he nodded sagely, raising his hammer for a few more blows before putting the sword back into the forge.

“I don’t know,” you sighed, huffing at a loose curl. “There was never any agreement made, or words spoken, and Salvor… Salvor is dead. She was… she was my best friend, ever since I can remember.”

“The love of a friend is not always the same as that of your love,” the smith mumbled, sounding like he spoke from experience. “And sometimes, the one you love dies before you can figure out if it is one or the other.” He looked up, shooting you a wry grin over the anvil. “I don’t know if you could love the Prince,” he said, “for I do not know you. I can tell you that he would not mistreat you, however, and he would at least try to love you.” You sighed.

“And what if I never love him, and he never loves me? What of our pebbles? I want… I always wanted my son or daughter to grow up like I did, _knowing_ that their parents loved each other, even though duty often tore them from each other’s side…” you mutter plaintively.

“I cannot say if you will, but he is a good dwarf, and I believe he would make a worthy Adad for any pebbles the Maker gave you,” the smith’s cheeks glowed slightly, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight.

“It sounds as though you know him well,” you said, idly playing with a dagger that had been strapped to your arm, no longer concealed by your dress, and catching the light of the forge in the sharp blade.

“You could say that I do,” he rumbled, but didn’t clarify.

“It was the hair,” you whispered, staring at the blade in your hands to avoid seeing his confusion. “No one told me about his hair before tonight,” you sighed, feeling slightly stupid for the way you had fled.

“His father’s hair was that colour too,” the smith revealed, something you hadn’t known. “Do you not like gold?” You could hear the frown in his voice, the stirrings of anger, and wondered at the reason.

“No…” you groaned, hiding your face in your hands, “I…Amad said she thought I would like his hair, that’s why she agreed to come, to see if we would suit. I have a thing for golden-haired dwarrow, it’s just.” You huffed, frustrated with your own emotions. “Salvor’s hair was just like it and for a moment… for a moment I could see it, down the years, catching sight of him in the morning and expecting it to be _her_.” Throwing your hands up in show of frustration, you heaved a deep sigh. “It was stupid. Salvor is _dead_ , her golden hair washed in blood and returned to the stone. I just…argh.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Fíli!” Kíli hissed, catching his brother’s attention. “Fíli, I just saw King Ranvé! Over there!” he pointed. Fíli slapped his hand down harshly.

“Discretely, Kíli!” he hissed, glaring at his sunnily smiling brother. Kíli’s mirth did not diminish in the face of his brother’s displeasure. Fíli would have sworn he heard Amad laugh behind them, but all his attention was riveted on the approach of King Ranvé.

She was alone. Fíli did not know whether to be horrified or pleased that he could procrastinate meeting his future bride for just a little longer.

“King Thorin!” King Ranvé greeted her fellow King amicably. “I must say, Erebor looks much better than the soldiers reported.”

“King Ranvé, you are too kind,” Thorin replied, though Fíli easily heard the note of pride in his Uncle’s voice. “Allow me to present my sister, Princess Dís, and my Heirs, Princes Fíli and Kíli,” he waved. Fíli managed to bow politely, pulling down Kíli with him; his younger brother had been about to offer the visiting King a handshake.

“A pleasure, your Highnesses,” Ranvé said, her mellifluous voice washing over the small Royal Family. “I am afraid my daughter is indisposed at present, she was feeling unwell and returned to our quarters.” Fíli had to stop himself staggering backwards in relief. He wasn’t precisely scared to meet the one who would cement the alliance between the two clans, but he worried that when he finally _met_ the lady, the whole arrangement would finally become real to him.

“Oh, dear,” Princess Dís said, and only long years of experience revealed her displeasure to her family. Obviously, Amad believed that this Orocarni Princess was some delicate desert flower, and was entirely unimpressed. Fíli hid his smirk. Perhaps this union wasn't set in stone yet? “I hope the Princess can find her way back to your guest rooms?”

“I’m sure rurkarukê will be fine. She is very resourceful.” King Ranvé replied, making Fíli wince at the realisation that the King of the Orocarni was at least as unimpressed as Amad… with Princess Dís.

“Well, might I have the honour of escorting you to your seat, Your Majesty?” Fíli heard himself ask, involuntarily offering his hand to King Ranvé.

“I’m sure I shall be most pleased to have your company, Prince Fíli,” King Ranvé replied, taking his arm. Fíli cursed his errant tongue, but Uncle Thorin looked pleased when he walked off with Amad, leading the way to the grand dining hall. “You are quite tall, you and your brother,” King Ranvé remarked, walking through the door. Fíli made a noncommittal sound in reply. “It is just as well. The Ladies of my line have always favoured taller dwarrow,” she mused, chuckling lightly when Fíli spluttered unintelligibly in reply.

 

Dinner concluded with no further upsets, for which Fíli was thankful. His nerves – already strung tight with waiting for the arrival of the bride his Amad had negotiated for him – could not have endured an evening of sniping. He wondered where Dwalin had gone – normally the warrior’s post was beside Uncle Thorin, but tonight he was conspicuously absent. Asking Kíli provided no information, and Fíli had no easy way to ask Thorin, who was seated on the other side of their illustrious guest.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s just that you do not know Prince Fíli, and you wish you could have met him without all the spectacle and eyes watching?” the smith said, chuckling when you nodded heartily. That was exactly what you had wanted, but the delays your party had suffered had made a private audience impossible before the Ball. He stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“What if he hates me for running away?” You exclaimed, jumping to your feet with a horrified gasp. “Oh, Mahal, what if he _saw_ me?!”

“I shouldn’t think he knows what you look like, Princess,” the smith rumbled, gently guiding you back down to perch on the small stool you had claimed for your seat. Leaning back against the wall, you stretched your legs towards the anvil.

“Maybe you’re right,” you sighed, “after all, I thought _he_ was the one with dark hair.” Suddenly, the whole thing seemed funny to you, laughing like a fool.

“Nah, Kíli’s spoken for,” your new friend chuckled with you.

“Is that why they were only arranging marriage for Prince Fíli?” you asked.

“Arranged marriages are fairly rare in Durin’s Folk,” the smith revealed. “I think Lady Rádveig and Lord Náin are the only couple in recent history to be arranged into marriage.”

“Oh, but that’s such a romantic story in the Orocarni!” you exclaimed, suddenly excited. “Rádveig had to go, of course, but her _sister!_ ” you paused dramatically. “Well, her sister was already betrothed, no?”

“I hadn’t heard that,” the smith said, oddly hoarse. Happy with a new audience, you continued breezily.

“Well, she was supposed to marry the third son of the King, but she refused to let her sister travel all the way to the North alone. And then she met her One!” You smiled widely. It was one of your favourite stories. “And they say she became a grand lady of Durin’s Line, think her husband was called Fardin, or something-”

“Fundin,” he interjected.

“Really?” you asked, furrowing your brow quizzically. “What an odd name. But, anyway, Lady Sigrún ran off with this... Fundin, and the third son of the King, Mýr, was so furious he rode off to the north after her to steal her back! They say he was taken by the Red Sands because he was so haughty as to believe the Maker had made a mistake, but no one knows for sure. All we do know is that Amad’s uncle was never seen again! Amad used to say good riddance; apparently he was a bit of a bastard.” The smith laughed. You smiled. “Finding your One is rare among my Clan,” you said wistfully, “that’s why we began arranging marriages instead.” A yawn punctuated your sentence. The smith pulled the red-hot steel from among the coals once more, and you fell asleep to the familiar sound of the hammer, oddly soothing despite the volume.

 

* * *

 

 

“My King, Lord Dwalin requests aid in the Forges,” a young Dwarf whispered, delivering his message urgently. “He says he would like Prince Fíli to lend him a hand as soon as possible.” Thorin frowned at that, looking quizzically at his nephew who could only shrug, equally confused. With a gesture from Thorin, Fíli excused himself, making his way down to the workshop where Dwalin had holed himself up for the duration of the Ball. Fíli hadn’t quite understood why, but Balin had also made himself scarce, and Fíli had had enough of his own problems to worry about without wondering why his other Uncle and cousin were acting odd.

“There ye are, lad.” Dwalin rumbled, standing in the doorway. “Come on then.”

“You sounded like it was urgent,” Fíli answered cautiously. Dwalin’s wide grin was far from reassuring; looking far too much like the sort of mischief Dís continually tried to convince them all they were too old for – not that any of them listened.

“It was.” Dwalin waved him inside. Fíli stared. The dwarrowdam in the corner, curled up on a small stool and leaning against the stone wall was fast asleep, an auburn curl moving gently with each breath. She was wearing what Fíli recognised as one of Dwalin’s spare tunics and covered by a threadbare blanket. Her hair had come half-undone, spilling in gentle waves and ringlets around her shoulders. The clasps and beads she wore were decorated with sapphires and Fíli instantly recognised her. He’d been sat next to her Amad all evening, staring at that same hair, studied the marks on King Ranvé’s beads.

“Mahal’s beard,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. She was beautiful, he thought, even more beautiful than the stories he had been told had proclaimed. “Dwalin, why is the Princess of Red Peak wearing your tunic?” he asked, praying that the answer was not the one most Dwarrow who didn’t know of the deep and abiding love between his Uncles would have expected. Dwalin rumbled his familiar laugh, patting Fíli’s shoulder.

“Well, I couldnae let her stand around in yon fine silk dress just waiting to have holes burnt in it,” he explained, pointing to the side of the room where a corner of blue fabric and lace peeked out from behind the partition. “I didn’t want to wake her, she seemed to have worried herself into a bit of a state, so I needed someone to discretely carry her back. I’ll take the dress.” Fíli groaned. _There_ was the mischief that smile had promised. Grumbling on principle, he watched as Dwalin picked up the gown, feeling a stab of sorrow that he hadn’t even caught a glimpse of her wearing it. Bending slightly, he scooped the Princess into his arms, amazed that she simply mumbled something unintelligible and wrapped her arms around his neck. Fíli valiantly tried not to notice how well she fit in his arms, remaining stoically unaffected when she nuzzled softly against his neck, her soft breathing tickling his skin.

Erebor was quiet, this late – or early – in the day, for which Fíli was thankful. If they had met anyone from the Orocarni party, they’d have had a diplomatic incident in the making, he was sure. He felt quietly grateful that Kíli had discovered precisely _where_ the party of King Ranvé would be housed earlier in the day.

 

* * *

 

 

You felt curiously safe and content in the arms that were carrying you somewhere, too tired to open your eyes to look. By the smell, it was not your new friend, this dwarf smelled a little of ale and food. You could hear the heavier thread of the smith beside him, however, and you weren’t worried. The thought of food made your empty stomach growl embarrassingly loudly. Your eyes flew open in shock, and you found yourself staring at a well-formed jaw, covered in golden curls and continuing down to a throat that was visibly swallowing its owner’s nerves.

“You’re hungry,” your rescuer stated, and suddenly it clicked. Your friend in the forge had spoken so familiarly about the Princes, and now the _Crown Prince of Erebor_ was carrying you. _Was it possible to die of mortification?_ you wondered, halfway hoping for ‘yes’ to be the answer as you implored Mahal to rescue you. Hiding your blush against his shoulder, you nodded.

“Is nae wonder,” the smith rumbled. “The wee lassie showed up hours ago, and I’d no food in the forge.”

“Cookie raid?” the Prince’s voice asked above your head, making his companion laugh loudly.

“Well, wouldn’t want Princess here to think Erebor couldnae feed her,” he replied with a grin. Fíli changed direction, though he didn’t put you down and you were too mortified to insist on walking on your own two feet. Besides, he smelled quite nice, some sort of woodsy soap, you thought, beneath the smell of food and smoke that clung to his clothes. It wasn’t an unpleasant combination, you decided drowsily.

 

The kitchens were mostly deserted, but no one looked up from their tasks when the three of you entered.

“Think you could find some leftovers, Dwalin?” Fíli asked, setting you down on a surprisingly comfortable seat. Apparently the smith was called Dwalin. The name rung a bell, but you were too tired to think about it. “I’ll put a kettle on for some tea.”

“Aye. Could do with a nibble myself, before I go find my bed,” Dwalin replied, and in short order you were staring at a heaping plate of dinner. There was roast, and some kind of baked tubers, drumsticks, and sauce. It looked divine, and your stomach growled again. You didn’t really remember the last time you’d eaten, but it was definitely before noon and it was now hours after midnight. Moaning in bliss as the first bite hit your empty stomach; setting yourself to the task of eating with an appetite no longer influenced by your nerves. You didn’t quite dare to look at Fíli, who was drinking a cup of tea in the corner of your eye, while Dwalin was shovelling food into his mouth with obvious delight. You grinned. Maybe Erebor wouldn’t be such a bad place. Sneaking another glance at Fíli, you admired the way the candlelight played in his golden curls. It wasn’t the same as Salvor’s hair, you thought, a few shades darker and less curly. The realisation made you blush lightly, but neither of your companions pointed it out. Your dress was lying on the bench next to Dwalin, you suddenly realised, simultaneously aware that you were wearing an old oversized tunic.

 

When you finally reached the rooms you had been shown to upon arrival – was it really only hours ago? – you winced. Hiding behind Dwalin’s bulk, you studied the scene before you. Amad was there, a general directing her troops, while King Thorin stood beside her trying to coordinate his guards.

“Dwalin!” he exclaimed, part reproof and part relief, you thought. “Where have you been?! The Princess has disappeared!”

“Ahh, I’m afraid I already found her,” Dwalin rumbled, holding up your dress. Amad gasped, and you were shocked to see her eyes fill with tears at the sight of the cut off laces. Your mind raced, following the track of hers perfectly.

“Amad, Amad, I’m fine,” Aware that your ears matched your beard, you took a step away from Dwalin’s large shadow, quietly thankful for his steadying hand on your shoulder. “I got lost and found the forges. Master Dwalin was kind enough to let me stay, and lent me a tunic so my dress wouldn’t get ruined,” you babbled into Ranvé’s shoulder as your amad’s hands petted your back, your arms, looking for any injury. “I fell asleep,” you admitted sheepishly. “And Fíli was kind enough to take me to the kitchen for some food!” You hadn’t realised when you’d taken his hand, but it was nice and warm in your own.

“Rurkarukê!” she sighed, but her exasperation was fond. “You and your forges. Just like your Adad, Maker help me.” Shaking her head, King Ranvé turned to King Thorin, dismissing the search parties in short order. Fíli’s hand was still wrapped around your own, though you didn’t feel quite brave enough to look at him. You didn’t feel cowardly enough to let go either, standing firm under the look King Thorin gave you when he noticed. You felt Fíli step up close behind you, and thought you saw a brief glimmer of softness in the Durin-blue eyes that seemed to penetrate your very soul.

“I am pleased to meet you,” King Thorin said, bowing politely to press a kiss to the knuckles of your free hand.

“The honour is mine,” you replied courteously, curtseying correctly while keeping your eyes on his face as was proper. He made no sound, but you were quite sure that Dwalin was hiding a snicker as you were locked in a test of wills with the King of Erebor. Fíli squeezed your hand, surprising you into looking at him. With deliberate slowness, he raised the hand he still held to his lips, brushing his lips across one knuckle… then the next… and the next. The braids in his moustache were an odd combination of soft and ticklish, but it was the cheeky look in his eyes that made heat rise to your cheeks.

“And I am Fíli, son of Dís, Prince of Erebor,” he whispered quietly against your dampened skin. Years of training – and the memory of quite a few bootlicking nobledwarrow – allowed you to regard him with an expression of utmost dignity on your face, though you knew the sparkle of mischief was as evident in your own as they were in his sea-green eyes.

“My gratitude for your timely assistance, Prince Fíli,” you replied, the power of a long line of Kings behind you, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” With a final benevolent nod, you swept regally – something that took skill when not aided by full skirts – into your room.

“Aye, I told you they would suit, King Thorin,” King Ranvé said, so quietly only Thorin heard it, before she, too, excused herself for the night.

 

* * *

 

 

Fíli could feel the heat in his face, not at all aided by the guffaws spilling from Dwalin’s lips.

“It’s not funny Dwalin!” Fíli hissed, smacking the warrior’s bicep. Thorin laughed, herding his unrepentantly chuckling One and his belligerent nephew towards their own family’s rooms.

“It was a little funny, Fíli, after all this fretting,” he chuckled. Fíli scowled at the both of them.

“She’s just.. ugh!” he exclaimed. Beneath the annoyance, however, he was almost giddy, remembering the way she felt in his arms, the way her beard rubbed against his neck. The warm firmness of her grip, the callouses that spoke of wielding tools; he wondered what her Craft was – guessing it was to do with smithing.

“She liked your hair,” Dwalin volunteered, over his laughing fit. Fíli and Thorin both stopped dead in the corridor, staring at the warrior’s broad back. The dark tattoos that decorated his shaved head, shone starkly in the torchlight. “Has a thing for blondes… and possibly knives, I spotted at least four strapped to her person.”

“Dwalin?” Fíli said hoarsely.

“Aye, lad?” Dwalin chuckled mischievously.

“I hate you.”

“I know,” he winked. “Why d'ye think I said?”

With a groan, Fíli opened his own bedroom door, pulling it decisively closed against the mockery of his Uncles. With a yawn, he collapsed into his bed, visions of auburn curls dancing across his dreams.

 


End file.
